John's Worry
by portlandwithyou
Summary: John's attempt to come to terms with himself. Developing John/Sherlock relationship.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock paced around the living room plucking at the poorly tuned violin as John read the paper aloud to him. "It says here that the police have declared the death of Richard Mitchwell as a suicide." Sherlock pulled the bow heavily against the strings of the violin releasing a demonic noise, "Wrong," he proclaimed before continuing his path around the room. Recently the papers had lacked the same spice that Sherlock craved in life, leaving him only with small logic puzzles that could no longer entertain him. "He would have landed further away from the building if he had jumped." He turned and continued the other way, "His father pushed him; at the press conference his hands had little defensive wounds indicating that Richard struggled before being pushed." This time the instrument emanated a more recognizable tone.

John folded the paper and placed it in his lap. "Are you sure there isn't something you want to talk about?" The stripped pajamas that hung off of Sherlock's thin frame were wrinkled and gave the appearance that he had not left bed for some time; with a dismissive hand wave he fell down upon the couch. "The criminals have become dull, I'm looking for something with real excitement." He clutched at the air as if hoping to grasp something substantial. "Maybe we should go out today, go have a look around the park." Suggested the weary doctor.

Over the past month the cases that fed Sherlock's never ending addiction were becoming harder and harder to come by as Scotland Yard cracked down on having none insiders work on cases. "Why go to the park?" He asked. "Why go anywhere?" John glanced around the flat's living room; half read books were strewn across the coffee table and a fortnight's worth of newspapers sat pristinely folded next to the telly. "Let's go out and get dinner," John said as he rose from the chair and set the paper down on top of the others, "how about Chinese? That's always your favorite."

Sherlock ran his hands through the curly mop of hair that sat on top of his head. The eyes that had once puzzled John now betrayed to him the inner thoughts of his troubled flat-mate. The hard green- gray eyes were filled with thought and contemplation as he sat up and placed the violin on the table in front of him. Without a word he strode out of the room and left John standing by himself, unsure of what his next move should be.

The sun fell quickly outside of their humble abode, leaving the stillness inside in sharp contrast with the frantic London that lay just outside of their doorway. As John waited for Sherlock he could hear bathroom cabinets open and shut, doors slam as he walked around, and the occasional shout in anger. An hour after first leaving the room Sherlock returned dressed in a fine grey suit and black dress shoes. "Shall we be off?" He questioned as though no time had passed since he was last so finely dressed.

As John followed down the stairs, like he always did, he could feel his mind slipping back into its own thoughts. The year had passed so quickly, John mused to himself as they passed out of the door and onto the sidewalk, now after spending so much time coming out of his shell he was afraid of the feelings that had begun to creep upon him. Nearly every day John felt pangs of love and affection for the strange man that had stumbled into his humble life. As they made their way down the streets towards the restaurant John wondered silently what had happened to the man that had once bravely stood on the battlefield repairing the men who had come to him bloodied and ready for death, how would he feel about the current John? Perhaps the phase would pass, wished John.

He stayed silent until they had been seated; leaving the two of them alone in the dark dining room as all around them couples enjoyed dates. "What did you sister have to say?" Sherlock questioned as they looked at the menu. Even as John sat questioning his sexuality he allowed himself the distraction of speaking about the other frustrating areas of his life. "She's decided to go back to Clara for now, they're trying to 'patch things up'. She'll be gone within a week." He set the menu down and looked up at Sherlock's painfully beautiful visage.

"Something else has been on your mind." Sherlock commented. His look was inquisitive, portraying the feelings that he so often kept to himself. John could see the struggle in Sherlock's mind; he rarely saw the helplessness that accompanied Sherlock's lack of knowledge. "It's nothing." Returned John, once again picking up the menu and turning it over. He could feel the man that sat across the table study his features as he feigned interest in the menu. "People only say that when they have something to hide." Sherlock observed to him.

In a fit of frustration John set the menu down and ran his hands through his hair. "Must you always try to analyze me while we're together?"

The conversation fell silent and they continued the ritual of dining. As the dinner progressed Watson did not look up from his plate, choosing instead to allow his emotions to brew within him. Intently he stared at the meal before him. Every time they ventured out he and Sherlock would eat the same meals, he would order something with chicken and Sherlock something with fish. John pondered the culinary rut they had fallen into, as his food grew cold before him. Now every choice to him was another thing to think about as he wondered what he was giving away to Sherlock's trained eye.

_What if you just told him? _John questioned himself. He allowed himself a glance up across the table. Sherlock's hand rested on the table as he sipped from his glass of water, John imagined what it would feel like to reached his own hand out and touch it against the invitingly pale skin. Involuntarily he opened his mouth, his brain raced to find the words to tell Sherlock what he was feeling.

_No. _This wasn't the time, or the place, how could he proclaim his love when they were surround by unfamiliar faces in an overpriced restaurant? This wasn't the time or the place to finally express what he had been hiding. His thoughts continued to spin, _What if I never told him? _Now that was an option, just hiding everything that was inside of him for the next however many years- _that could work out. _

Together they stood up from the table and made their way back to the flat. Sherlock stood ahead of John, leading the away through the evening crowds that bustled about eagerly taking photos of the city as it was lit against the dark night.

John finally spoke, unable to keep himself quiet any longer. "Busy night, isn't it? I wonder why everyone is out on the town tonight."

"There's a gathering tonight in Regents Park, in memorial of gang violence victims." He explained as they stepped up to the door of 221b Baker Street. "I was sure you had read about it in the paper." The warmth of the home contrasted with the chilly streets they had just emerged from. "There has to be something you aren't telling me," observed Sherlock. "Your eating habits have changed, you're no longer seeing Sarah outside of work, and you've started biting your thumb again."

"What?" John questioned as he glanced to his hands, self conscious of any sign that could be seen by Sherlock. "I haven't started biting my thumb." The defensive tone in his voice began to rise with the tension of the situation. "Yes, you have." Sherlock said casually as he slid his coat off of his shoulders. "You did it twice at dinner and once earlier when you were reading the paper aloud." He placed the coat upon a peg, and began up the stairs. John rushed to pull his own coat off and set it upon a peg. "Well what has that got to do with anything?" asked John as he began up the steps. "Something's happened," commented Sherlock, "You must have felt it yourself, sexual trouble isn't it?"

It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him, as though he was once again in a schoolboy fight. Every feeling hit him at once, had he really allowed his secret to be discovered so easily? "What would make you say that? What has my thumb got anything to do with that?" The voice that emanated from his body wasn't the same man that he was familiar with, this voice sounded different, as though he had aged so much in just a matter of moments.

"You've stopped seeing Sarah, but that isn't deep enough, is it? Your eating habits, you no longer eat as you used to, yet you still sit at the table as though you're going to, classic sign of someone with anxiety issues." The words flowed freely, without a thought or a hesitation, once again the stifled genius had been returned to his forte. "Biting your thumb," he continued on, "it's a habit that only comes out when you're talking about Harry, the most stressful person in your life." John preferred not to dwell on the irony of Sherlock speaking of the most stressful person in his life. "Harry hasn't become any worse, you would have told me that, and no one else has entered your life, they and I would have met." The deduction had slowly become an examination of their friendship. "Now," he lowered his eye brows together, "what is there that we don't talk about?" the corners of his lips twitched, giving him a grin for just a moment, "Your sexual life is all that's left." Now he allowed the grin to stay for just a moment longer, "Now, tell me, what is her name?"

A tiny bit of relief crept into John's heart, what a perfect pronoun Sherlock had chosen to use. "I haven't got a girl." John corrected. He slumped into the chair he had previously been seated in, now with the confidence that Sherlock did not know his deepest secret. How close they had flirted with what truly lay within John, as though Sherlock had brushed the edge of the rock inside of John.

"Whatever you say," dismissed Sherlock. "I'm off to bed." John watched as Sherlock collected a book off the bookshelf and departed downstairs. His tall thin body taunted John; the shirt he wore was fit perfectly to his sleek chest, and his trousers were crisply ironed into perfect pleats. John cursed himself for being distracted by Sherlock's body. He would never be able to control himself if he just allowed his thoughts to trail off to Sherlock. With one more fit of anger John left and room and went off to bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who read the last chapter and who have come far enough to read this one. I enjoy the feedback that I've been getting and I'd love more. /expressing my love.

The next morning John was awoken by the sound of a police siren in the street below. He struggled to unwrap himself from the sheets, pulling the coarse beige cotton away from his sweating body as he tried to sit up. He stumbled out of his room; calling out to the only person he thought would bring the police out to Baker Street at such a time in the morning. "Sherlock, why are the dammed police in the street?" He waited for a response, but was met with none. "Sherlock?" He questioned to the seemingly empty house, but was only met with echoes in response. "Fine, I'll figure it out myself." John huffed, apostrophizing his irritation to the blank walls as he trudged down the stairs.

His dreams had been filled with rushing thoughts of Sherlock. _What would it be like to hold him close at night? What would it sound like to hear Sherlock return his declaration of love? _That's the way all of his dreams had been recently, Sherlock looking down and smiling at John as he held him in an intimate embrace.He blushed, ashamed of how he felt like a schoolgirl; all he could focus on was a boy that would not have him. How strange it was to think about someone in such a romantic way, he had never felt this way about Sarah, she had never consumed his thoughts in such a way and prevented him from thinking of anything else. Sarah, how would she feel when he finally let out his true feelings? _When?_ He shook his head; it shouldn't be _when_ but _if. _

"John?" John jumped in fright; he had been standing in front of the door staring blankly at the brass doorknob. The low sultry voice of Sherlock had been a shock to him. "John," he repeated, "are you alright?" John had turned to face Sherlock and now that he was facing Sherlock he couldn't help but take in everything about Sherlock. The way his shirt was stretched enough to reveal his collarbone, his curls that were playfully mashed in one direction, the little wrinkles around his eyes, everything suddenly seemed bright and vivid to John. "I'm fine," he managed, "why are the police outside?"

"I don't know," he reached around John, and unlocked the door, "perhaps we should find out." John stepped backwards, watching Sherlock take the doorknob into his hand and pull the door open with one fluid motion.

In the street below stood dozens of police officers clad in thick winter coats, some of whom stood in arcs, looking off towards a side street and still others spoke into radios in hushed quick voices and averted their eyes from what captured everyone else's attention. Sherlock stepped out onto the step outside of the door, the scene outside had stolen his attention. John watched as his bare feet pattered across the concrete towards the closest police officer. From his spot still planted firmly within the house John could see Sherlock exchange words with the Detective Sergeant, and then turned away from her and came back to John.

"A child's been found."

"That's," he turned a slightly shocked expression towards the spot that everyone else was facing, "I don't know." John was conflicted on how to feel, his training told him that the death was like every other, yet his moral compass would not let him escape how tragic the death was. "Perhaps we should make some tea." John wasn't sure why his mind had drifted to the thought of something to consume, but both he and Sherlock eagerly followed the thought.

Sherlock busied himself in the kitchen, preparing tea for the time of two of them while John sat at the cluttered table. He pondered the little sign of affection, Sherlock closed himself off to so many people, but somehow John had managed to break through all of that. _What if I told him right now? _The thought flitted into his mind. "Sherlock," John was surprised that he had spoken. Sherlock looked up from the tea bags that he had been fiddling with, "Yes?"

John wanted to tell Sherlock the way he felt, about the months of questioning his sexuality, the nights he had spent worrying that he may be discovered, and most of all how much he cared about Sherlock. Everything was collecting in his mind, the words he so desperately wanted to say to the tall man that stood in front of him. "I-" he stuttered, "I wanted to say thank you for the tea."

Sherlock's cheeks tinged a light pink as he averted his eyes, "Thanks."

_Why did I just say thank you for the tea? _John couldn't understand why he had chosen those words, of all the things that he could have possibly said that hadn't been what he had hoped for.

"Sherlock," John took the cup that was offered to him by the consulting detective, "the child," he wasn't sure how to brooch the subject to Sherlock, "what, what happened?"

"You don't really want to know."

John shook his head, "No," he could feel anger welling within him, creeping into his voice, "I want to know." _When did Sherlock start caring about protecting my feeling? _For once he didn't want Sherlock to care, he only wanted to hear the truth that was being kept from him. Sherlock took a sip from his tea, "The child was malnourished." His voice had turned; John recognized it from explanation that was ever given in the house. "It looked like abuse, obviously long term." John nodded. "They've asked for me to come in later."

"Oh," John looked around the room before turning his attention back to the man that sat across from him, "are you going to?"

"Of course, in fact," he glanced around for a clock, "I must be leaving now." He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. John watched as he walked away observing the most lighthearted moment of his whole morning. "Sherlock," he called after him. "What?" He peeked his head around the frame of the arch. "What are you wearing?" John asked. Sherlock cocked his eyebrow and then glanced down at what he was wearing. His flannel pants had fallen, riding low against his hips, and his shirt had moved to reveal the majority of his shoulder. "Strange."

"You should probably change." John laughed to himself as Sherlock left the room after agreeing to change before leaving.

John let the momentary hilarity pass before once again thinking about what lay outside of their front door. Of all the things he had seen while he was off to war the pain of children stood stark against the desert background that lay within his memories. He had seen the tears glisten off of their cheeks as they begged in any language they knew. Children caught in war, something that he had never expected when he signed up to protect crown and country. A sharp pain shot through his calf, the constant reminder of the frontline that would never leave him.

Faintly beyond the living room John could make out the sound of the two toned alarm as it drove further away from 221b Baker Street. His eyes cast down upon the cold cup of tea that sat in front of him on the table. Somehow it had become situated between a rack of test tubes and a stack of old unrecorded case files. Why had he made him tea? Maybe it was sign pointing towards everything that John had been hoping for. No, Sherlock had told him that he was married to his work, when would Sherlock take the time to make a relationship with John? When had been the wrong word, he corrected to himself, Sherlock would never love him.

He could hear Sherlock coming back up the stairs. As he stepped into the room the light danced off of his suit, the same way it did every time he dressed for a case. "Why aren't you ready, John?"

"I don't think I can work on the case."

"Yes you can, now get dressed, and I'll call us a cab."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Thanks for all the support! You're all wonderful. I'm sorry if any problems slip through into the story- I try to make sure that it doesn't happen. I love you all.

John sat next to Sherlock in the cab as they travelled back to the flat. The day had been filled with running around as Sherlock speculated wildly about the case at hand while John and the police looked on in confusion. John hadn't expect them to be out so much, his body now had a faint ache as they drove along the busy roads. The streets were deserted, everyone else having gone to bed long before; leaving the large, pristine streets of London a shadow of what they were during the busy day. He could feel how tired he was, his eyelids growing heavy as the consulting detective next to him focused on the phone in his hands. The next morning he had to work, he had promised Sarah that for once he would actually come in and work a full shift. His normal shifts were plagued with interruptions by Sherlock who expected him to be at his beck and call while Sherlock was on a case. John stifled a yawn; he needed to sleep.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock's voice was startled, his deep thought had been broken by the speaking of his name.

John studied his face; he looked wild, completely different from the previous day when he had been consumed with the emptiness of boredom. "Do you mind if I sleep for a moment? I mean we're all the way across London from the flat, and I have work tomorrow, and I'm already in trouble for sleeping on the job." John rambled off the list, this time unable to control the yawn that served to end his sentence.

He could see Sherlock's mind process the request, he had become distant since the moment they had walked into the lab earlier. It was a frustrating state to see him in, the way that he thirsted so heavily for knowledge once they began a case. Frequently leaving the room for extended times without any explanation, or stopping people midsentence to voice his thoughts on the current situation of the case. He was never this bad once they had solved a case, he always returned to the person John loved, but when they were embroiled with the emotions of the case it was like he was a different person. He was pained to see someone he loved so deeply give up every emotion for a case that would prove to only be a cheap thrill. So few cases seemed to give any real emotional satisfaction to Sherlock, eventually becoming only a distant, hazy memory.

"I don't mind if you sleep."

John stretched his body as much as he could manage in the small space, "Thanks."

Finally, he allowed himself the luxury of sleeping. His eyelids closed, heavy with sleep, but almost immediately he was struck with the fleeting thought of how close he was sleeping to Sherlock. Thoughts began to flood his mind; if only he was closer he could justify resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder. _Ridiculous_, he thought to himself,_ that would never get past the ever-observing Sherlock_. He fidgeted to pull his jumper down; now even with his need to sleep he wouldn't be able to as he thought of the man that sat beside him. _Calm down, _he reminded himself. _Sherlock isn't even thinking about you sleeping, he's focused on his mobile. _He took a deep breath, settling himself in once again, now determined to sleep at all costs.

John was awoken by Sherlock shaking his shoulder, "John," Sherlock shook the shoulder once again, "John, we're home." Mechanically John opened his eyes to the world. They sat in the cab outside of 221b Baker Street; the dull streetlamps illuminated Sherlock's face in the still night. John still felt as though he was dreaming, his thoughts we're blurred together as he tried to comprehend the situation. Sherlock leaned over John to open the car door, "I'll help you out." Sherlock's arm brushed against John as he pulled it back from the door. John's heart gave a little flutter; Sherlock's unintentional brush against him had been thrilling. "Can you manage out of the door?" Sherlock questioned, guiding him to the door. John gave a faint agreement, unsure of what he had actually said.

The cold wind assaulted John's body as he stepped outside. He pulled his coat tight against himself, blocking what little of the wind it could. He took a deep yawn as Sherlock stepped out of the car and drew himself up to his full height next to him. His wool coat was slightly askew, and the top button of his shirt had come undone revealing his pale, harsh collarbone. Sherlock held his arm out to John, "Here, take my arm, you seem uneven on your feet." John hesitantly reached out and took Sherlock's arm.

_I must be dreaming. _He told himself as they stepped up to the door. _I'm still asleep in the cab. This cannot be happening. _John watched asSherlock dug his hand into his pocket, fishing for his key. _I don't want this to be a dream. _Sherlock pushed the door open. "Here, you can go first."

John and Sherlock made their way through the dark house. Somewhere Mrs. Hudson had left a solitary light on in the house, leaving most of the house shrouded in darkness with only glimpses of light to guide them. John strained his eyes against the ever-changing light as he tried to read Sherlock's face. _Is he enjoying this? _John asked himself while Sherlock muttered to no one in particular about how loud the staircase creaked in the dead of the night.

"Here we are." Sherlock announced as they reached John's door. "Don't worry about getting up tomorrow, I have to go to the lab again to check on some tests." Sherlock awkwardly stepped back, "I'll see you for tea tomorrow." He fled off to his room without another word to John, as though he was ashamed about walking John to his room.

_Sherlock just walked me from the cab to my room. _John felt giddy like he had as a boy on Christmas day when he first caught sight of the presents._ What if he's trying to tell me something? Maybe I'm just reading too deeply into it. Maybe I'm not. _John's mind was a blur as he changed for bed. _He wanted me to hold onto his arm. _A little smile danced across John's lips. _It was almost like the end of a date. _

After the excitement of the night his bed felt strangely uncomfortable. The sheets were scratchy against his bare skin as he pulled them over his chest. All of the tiredness that had plagued him in the cab was suddenly gone. He moved to his side, flipping his pillow over as he moved. He could feel his nervousness creepy into his stomach.

He laid, absorbing to the stillness of the house. He could still feel Sherlock helping him up the steps. The vivid memories of the way Sherlock felt against him was enough to make John seriously question how Sherlock felt about him. It wasn't just a friendly hand after one of his leg episodes, it was an unasked for guide from the cab up to his room. Maybe he'd felt guilty about making him run around London all day, but they had done that plenty of times. Maybe it was because of the way he'd felt all day, slightly ill at the thought they had to work a case involving a child. But perhaps, John wished the most, it was Sherlock opening himself up to everything that John wanted.

_Sherlock doesn't know how I feel. All he thinks about are his silly little deductions. He knows so much about the facts of some bodies' life that he doesn't even stop to think about how they feel. _

John could feel his anger rising. What a fool he had been for even letting the idea that Sherlock cared enter his mind. How ridiculous he was, Sherlock would never care for him, that wasn't what Sherlock did. Sherlock only cared about Sherlock, how many times had he proved that? How many cases had they worked were their lives were in danger? How many times had John had to worry if they were going to make it home? Sherlock didn't care about him. Sherlock cared about his work and his work alone.

With a huff John tossed to his other side. It was useless trying to read into the situation. It was just a fluke. It wouldn't have any lasting effect.

John spent the rest of the night alternating between dozing off and punishing himself for believing that Sherlock loved him. When he was awake, he prayed to sleep, but every time he drifted into he sleep he was startled by any imaginary distant noise.

Finally, after hours of dreadful thoughts and light sleep he got out of bed for a cup of tea. As he stepped out of his room onto the landing he gingerly step his cane down, careful not to make any unneeded noise. He delicately moved onto the step, it's wood sunk releasing a heavy groan. The next step he faired better, this time no noise was admitted and he continued on with his journey.

It took him several minutes and a half dozen groans of the floorboards to get to his destination, the kitchen. It was still the mess that it had been the previous morning. Papers were strewn over every surface. Some contained John's hurried notes on cases while others were filled with equations and short clipped sentences describing various experiments that were hide around the house in any unused space.

He cleared himself a space at the table and set to work typing anything of his notes that he could find. The lined papers all contained his cramped handwriting describing Sherlock's steps from discovery to conclusion. John turned over one of the older papers in his hands. It had been splashed with water at some point and had lived in his pocket crumpled up after he had furiously torn it from his notebook after his pen burst across the front. It had once contained the account of a case involving an elderly woman who had died in the middle of a busy London street. It had taken Sherlock just minutes to give his explanation of the death, they hadn't ever left the side of the body before Sherlock spun them all a wild tale of forgery and bribery. John sighed as he reflected on how doubtful he had been of Sherlock, even for all of the cases they had worked it seemed to be too much for even Sherlock. Yet, as it always did, it came to light that Sherlock had correctly deduced the case.

John picked his glass of water up; the glass was cold in his hands, leaving a thin film of dew around the cup. He had hardly scratched the surface of his notes, from where he sat he could see all the other piles that were stacked around the kitchen and living room. It would take all of the morning to finished what he wanted. Lately he had left the blog to take care of itself, automatically posting the account of an old case once a week. He had held off from maintaining it after Sherlock once again voiced his concern to John about allowing the police to read the case files. "I don't need Lestrade to know what I eat for breakfast," Sherlock had drily told him one night after dinner.

As the morning light began to trickle in from the windows John could hear Sherlock move about downstairs. _I should talk to him, _John mused as he saved the final paragraph on a case from months before, _just to clear everything up. _For once John was confident in his decision. He would talk to Sherlock, even if it didn't lead to anything, he still wanted to know why Sherlock had offered so much help to John the night before.

His breaths were ragged as he heard the foot steps of Sherlock approaching. This was his moment, he watched as Sherlock entered the kitchen. He looked as he did every morning, unkempt, but still what John loved. "Morning," Sherlock offered.

"Sherlock, can you sit down, I want to talk to you?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Sorry this is a little short, but I am literally about to get in the car to leave to go on vacation. I won't update in the next week, but I promise to take a notebook and try to write at least a little while I'm gone.

I love you all! I hope you enjoy it, this was a difficult, but rewarding chapter to write!

John could feel his heartbeat in his throat as Sherlock took the seat across from him. The rhythmic sound intensified as he looked across the table at Sherlock's majestic blue eyes. The way Sherlock took his seat in a calm manner drove John insane. How could he be so calm and collected while John was filled so many emotions and fears about telling him? What gave him the right to do that? He was about to tell Sherlock everything, finally have the discussion with him that he had been dreading, and Sherlock was just fine. John tried to breathe, his chest felt constricted. Now, now was his time to tell Sherlock everything that he felt, every emotion that he'd struggled with, every night he'd spent up wondering about his own sexuality.

"Sherlock," he swallowed, "I think I might have feelings for you." The words spilled out of John's mouth. He felt the burden of hiding his feelings lift off of his chest, and fear of Sherlock's reaction quickly replace it. He avoided looking at Sherlock, "I don't know why it happened, or when it started, but I can't help it. I guess, I just-" he faltered, "I just tried to stop everything that I've been feeling. I was sick, I can't stop what I'm feeling, and it's fine if you don't feel that way, but I love you." He felt emotionally drained as the tears welled up in his eyes, "I love you and I just need to know how you feel." The tears weren't as dramatic as he had always imagined, they only managed to well up in his eyes without streaming down his cheeks.

He had never imagined telling Sherlock like this, he'd never even given himself much of a chance to imagine telling him at all. Once, when they had been called to Paris he'd toyed with telling him as they sat in a park, but a mixture of fear, and the need to stay professional for the case had prevented him. It had been beautiful that night in Paris; even if they hadn't had the chance to really enjoy it, in the few moments they had stopped to breathe he had been taken by the crystal clear night. The dim lights that spread across the city had looked as though someone had thrown a blanket of stars over the vast metropolis. In his mind he still remembered glancing at Sherlock to find him also staring at the city. Sherlock's eyes had settled into a distant stare. "It's beautiful." Were the only words that passed his lips while they sat on the bench waiting for the suspect. If only he could have recaptured that mood, the warm Parisian air, the way that the trees around them had created a secluded point in the city.

But he had not managed any of this; instead his feeling had been released at a cluttered kitchen table in the flat that he shared with the man he loved. The moment between telling him and his reaction stretched on for a painful amount of time. At last Sherlock said something.

"John, I thought I had made it clear to you that I am married to my work, I don't have time for a relationship. You've seen how I work, the kind of dangers I put myself in every day, it's not right to bring someone else into that." He looked vexed as he phrased his answer. "I'm not saying that I don't have feelings for you, but I just don't think it's right for me to put someone that I care about so much into that kind of situation." He had tensed up, a slight color rising to his cheeks. His eyes, which had never turned to John during his answer, were now fixed upon his face. His normally graceful movements had become stiff.

John gave a frustrated groan, "Damn it, Sherlock, do you love me? That is all I want to know."

Sherlock averted his gaze, letting a tiny sigh escape. "John, I really do love you, more than anything, but you've seen me when I'm working." Sherlock moved his pale hand to cover John's hand that sat on the table.

"I don't care what you're like when you're working." John pulled his hand away. "We don't need to be anything when we're working, we could limit our relationship to just outside of the cases."

Sherlock shook his head, "You know that wouldn't work."

John stood up from the table; he was shaking, unsure if it was from anger or sadness.

"Where you are going?" Sherlock questioned, a hint of frustration curled in his speech.

"Out," John wouldn't look at Sherlock, "I just need to go take a walk." He trudged back to his room. As he shut the door behind himself he could feel tears spring to his eyes. What a stupid thing it had been, telling Sherlock how he felt about him. _Why did I even tell him? _He pulled his shirt off and threw it on the floor. _I should have just kept my mouth shut. _He stepped into a clean pair of jeans. _What an idiot I was. _

He sat down the bed; giving himself over to the last bits of emotion that he had managed to keep inside of himself. Sherlock loved him, he turn the thought over in his mind. Sherlock really loved him.

John slowly put his shoes on, his mind wandered to all of the times he'd put the same shoes on to go out and solve a case with Sherlock, how many times he'd performed the same ritual of getting ready, while he grappled with his feelings, blind to Sherlock's own struggle.

As John combed his hair there was a quiet knock at the door. "Who is it?" John called out.

"It's me, Sherlock, I just want to talk to you, okay?" His voice was strained, as he carefully phrased his words. "I don't feel like I said everything I wanted to say earlier."

"Well, I feel like you said more than enough." John was struck by how childish it was that they continued to hold the conversation through the door, yet he did not move to open the door."

"John," Sherlock sounded exasperated, "you and I need to talk."

John huffed, sure Sherlock wanted to talk now, after everything he still wanted to press the wound harder. He walked to the old wooden door and opened it. Sherlock's face was red and puffy he looked raw from crying. Sherlock had changed into an expensive, immaculate suit since John had last seen him in the kitchen. His eyes passed over the detective's face. He had never seen Sherlock display so much emotion over anything expect for his work. He had never seen him cry real tears. His openness, the way he had come to offer himself up to John with his emotions on his sleeve was too much for John. The bursts of emotions flooded him, allowing him to cherish the few split seconds of just watching Sherlock.

Without any explanation Sherlock stepped forward, reaching his arms out to engulf John in an embrace. One hand moved to rest on the small of John's back and other moved to cup the back of his neck.

John took a sharp intake of breath; his head was swimming as he tried to make sense of what was happening.

Sherlock's lips felt soft of his as they kissed. The moment lasted forever; the pressure of their lips pressed together, the feel of their chests placed together as they hugged.

Finally, John broke the kiss to breathe. Sherlock released his hold as John stepped backward for breath.

"I love you." Sherlock said. "I love you so much, but I can't give up my job for anything." He looked frazzled; John could almost see the thoughts as they flew through Sherlock's mind.

"I don't want to have to compete with some case for your attention."

Sherlock shook his head, "I know, but I just need something for me, an outlet for everything." Sherlock could read the signs in John's face, his brow was knitted in disbelief of what he was saying. "I hadn't thought about how I felt for you," Sherlock confessed, "I haven't thought about feelings like those in years. Yet, when you were pouring your heart out it made me think, it made me think about everything we've been through and how I couldn't think about life without you. I love you." A smile spread across his face. "I love you."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **You thought I'd forgotten about you, hadn't you? Well, I haven't! Sorry it's taken so long to update, but I just developed a wicked case of writer's block over the summer, and now that I start school tomorrow I'll be more in the mood to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter and I promise to update soon!

John shrugged his coat off; the restaurant that they had just stepped into hardly seemed to be the place to wear a second-hand coat on a Friday night. From where he stood behind Sherlock he could easily see the dark, wood panels that lined the walls, the soft candles that glowed throughout the room. His coat seemed heavy in his hands as he followed Sherlock and the waiter through the busy restaurant.

_I should have combed my hair more. _John unconsciously reached his hand up and brushed his hair back. He glanced around the room, everyone he could see seemed glamorous and well dressed, even Sherlock had chosen to wear a silk shirt that John had never seen before. Sherlock had put more effort into his dress than normal, John noted, everything was much sharper and more formal than what Sherlock normally wore to crime scenes.

The waiter that had been leading them through the restaurant stopped at a table that sat towards the back of the long, packed room. "This will be your table." Sherlock walked around the table and took the seat that allowed him to face the entryway of the restaurant, leaving John to sit across from him. "Will you be needing water?" the waiter's voice was calm, with a hint of a Northern upbringing hiding in his voice. John felt lost; he had never eaten in such an upscale restaurant, let alone on a date with a man. Sherlock saved him the trouble of answering, "Two glasses." The waiter handed each man a menu, and then with a curt nod, departed from the table.

John watched as he weaved in and out of the tables towards the kitchen doors. He turned back around to face Sherlock. "What the hell are we doing here?" John demanded. Immediately he regretted what he had said, Sherlock's eyes flashed a hurt look that John wasn't familiar with, something that John hadn't expected. "You don't like it?" Sherlock's voice had taken a steely turn. John tried to backpedal, "No, it's just that I don't know how to act around…" he looked for a phrase, _these people_ seemed a little harsh, "here." Sherlock shook his head before losing himself in the tall menu.

Reluctantly, John searched his own menu for any sign of normal food. The French words that were splashed around were vaguely familiar to the army doctor, a long forgotten memory of the time he spent attending a comprehensive. Struggling, to remember épinards meant John picked up the smallest fork on the place setting and began to fiddle with it. His thumb ran over the short metal tines as he read and reread the words on the page. Quietly John sat everything down on the table, observing Sherlock as he absently looked around the room.

"You're analyzing them, aren't you?"

Sherlock blushed, "We're on a date."

Happiness filled John, sitting across the table from him was the man that he'd so desperately wanted for a year, and now they were on a _date. _

"I don't think that would stop you." John said playfully. He smiled as he picked the menu back up again, trying once more to decipher the words. Glimpsing over the top of the heavy list of food, John could see the quizzical look on Sherlock's face. "What is it now?" John asked.

"Oh nothing, nothing." His slender fingers reached for the cloth napkin that was delicately folded on the plate, "the man just to our left is going to propose to his girlfriend in a matter of minutes." The napkin had disappeared out of sight onto Sherlock's lap. Clumsily, John attempted the same movement that Sherlock had gracefully completed moments before. Instead of the image he had imagined in his head, John simply managed to nearly knock a very sharp knife onto the floor. "Please," John gave into what Sherlock wanted, "tell me, how did you come to this conclusion?"

A look of devilish pride flashed on Sherlock's face. "His leg is placed further into the aisle, indicating that he intends to move soon, yet it isn't for the toilet, he's just returned from that.

"Thank you," Sherlock paused to thank the waiter who had returned with the glasses of water, before once again leaving the two alone. Contemplating the glass in front of him Sherlock continued with his explanation, "The blazer pocket has something inside of, you can tell by the way that it tugs the whole blazer to one side." As Sherlock walked through it step-by-step John could see where his deductions came from, the subtle things that he had failed to notice. Every secret that the man held came to light easily as the consulting detective's soothing voice whispered over the table to John.

Trailing off from a sentence about the man's shoes Sherlock stopped talking. His hand snaked over the terrain of the table until the tips of his fingers brushed against John's hand. "But we're on a date," he concluded, "we don't need to talk about work." John could see the little lines form around his eyes as he forced a smile.

The eating portion of the dinner past without much incident, the only moment of excitement came when the man at the table next to them dropped to his knee. Before John could stop him Sherlock let out a small "tsk" noise. "Sherlock," John hissed, "you can't do that here." His date blushed a light shade of pink, before taking up his glass of wine and greedily sipping from it. All throughout the dining room the tables had begun to clap, and glasses clinked as people toasted the newly engaged couple.

John leaned closer to the table, "Feeling a little uncomfortable?"

His date had taken a stiff, unnatural pose, his left hand balled in a fist on the table, while the other was still intertwined around the stem of the wine glass. "Just a little." For the first time all night Sherlock's voice held a hint of sarcastic playfulness.

"Well, you don't have to worry about any of that," assured John.

Sherlock gave the faint hint of a smile. "What do you say we get the cheque and go back to the flat?"

John gave a little mischievous smiled, "Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Seduce?" Sherlock's nose had crinkled, "Why ever would you say that?"

"It's from _The Graduate." _He wasn't surprised by the response he had received, he had come to know that almost all references to pop culture would be foreign to Sherlock. "But going back to your original question, I'd love to go back to the flat."

The ride back to 221b was all but silent. Sherlock had spent the short ride back rattling off any and all deductions that came to mind about his surroundings. Some, John was proud to say, even he had observed and others could only have been found with Sherlock's keen eye.

Sherlock broke off mind sentence. "You're tired." He said placing a hand on John's lap. The thin, warm fingers gently rubbed against his leg. "You work tomorrow, perhaps you should go to sleep once we get back." Even in the dark of the cab John could see the way that Sherlock's forehead had developed small worry lines. The look of affection, the way that he was so eager to care, made John swell with warmth. Of all the people in the world, Sherlock had chosen to show his inner most feelings to John. Even when they had first met, in the early days of chasing cabbies, he had shown hints of what really was inside. _The most complex man in the world really does love me_, John thought to himself as he placed his owe hand on top of Sherlock's. "I'll go to bed whenever you want me to."

221b pulled into sight just as Sherlock pulled his hand away and he plunged it into his pocket, in search of his wallet. "You don't have to do that," John insisted, fumbling for his own wallet out of his back pocket. "Nonsense," Sherlock produced the sleek, black leather wallet and pulled from it a handful of money, "I'm the one who had insisted on the date, so I shall pay for it." John blushed, it wasn't as if he had put any fight to the idea that they go on a date, but he hadn't expected Sherlock to be so generous. John acquiesced, allowing Sherlock to pay for the taxi, and the two of them ventured into the flat.

The two untangled themselves from the winter clothing they wore, John carefully placing his coat on a hook inside of the living room, while Sherlock flung his over an armchair that faced the television. John looked at the man who had taken him on a date, the man who had professed his love to him just two days before.

"What are we?" The words hung in the air after John asked them. The consulting detective approached John, now that they had moved from just being friends into something more John could no longer tell if Sherlock stood so close because he did not understand the rules of personal space or simply because he wanted to, with John rooting for the latter. "I believe _boyfriends_ is what we're generally called." Sherlock's mouth trembled before he spoke again, "Although that seems a little juvenile, partners, maybe."

"Partners," John reached out and placed a hand Sherlock's hip, drawing him closer, "I think I like that." He and Sherlock leaned in for a kiss, their soft lips meeting. Neither broke away for a long while, choosing to drink in the moment. Finally, Sherlock pulled away, staring into John's cool grey-blue eyes, "You're beautiful." He kissed him once again, "but you have to go to bed."

John pulled in and kissed Sherlock, "Off to bed I go, then." And with one final goodnight, the two retired to bed.


	6. Epilogue

Several weeks later John and Sherlock sat curled on the couch. Sherlock's cold feet were tucked up under John's legs as they sat together eating take-away Chinese. "You don't need to shovel the food into your mouth, there are much more gracefully ways to eat your rice." The last few grains of rice that John had managed to balance on his chop-sticks toppled back into the take-out container. With an over-dramatic flare John stuck his chop-sticks into his take-out container. "We're not all as polished as you." He reminded his ever socially oblivious partner.

"You're silly," Sherlock slung his arm over John's shoulders, "but I love you."

John moved in closer, "I love you too, Sherlock, I love you too."

**A/N:** And so we come to the end of our short time together. How I have loved you all so much. I'm sorry that this ending is so short, but I felt that this was the thing to do. I've loved the reviews, likes, and anything else that I may be forgetting. I hope that you have a wonderful time, best wishes!


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